George Washington didn't sleep there, but I have no reservations admitting I have.

So did Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Liza Minnelli, Helen Mirren, the Dalai Lama, Mick Jagger and certain members of Bon Jovi.

I had heard so much about the William Penn Hotel (yes, I know it's officially the Omni William Penn, but somehow the tagged-on corporate name diminishes the grandeur of the city's oldest hotel) that I decided the only way to actually understand its history was to check myself into the Presidential Suite.

Some call her a "grand dame," but grand hotel is a much better fit. Built at a cost of $6 million by Henry Clay Frick -- Frick's last building project -- the William Penn opened on March 9, 1916. Many famous folk have walked through the revolving doors -- it was here that Mary Pickford slept in the French Suite, where Elsa Maxwell exchanged gossip in the Palm Court lobby, where Jerome Kern wrote songs for "Showboat"; where Lunt and Fontanne were stranded during the 1936 flood, where Lawrence Welk's "bubble machine" was invented and is still on display in Marketing Guru Robert Page's office. (It's tiny, made from a loaf pan and fan and yes, the machine first used for the movie premiere of Cecil B. DeMille's "Unconquered," still works.)

Recently Jerry Seinfeld, Bill and Hillary, Barack Obama and John McCain were guests ... a scene from "Smart People" was filmed here, and stars Dennis Quaid and Sarah Jessica Parker spent a night or two. (Yes, her hubby Matthew Broderick visited.)

You don't have to stay the night to visit and practice the art of jaw-dropping. Ask nicely, and the concierge will whisk you the 17th floor, where the Urban Ballroom has the distinction of being the only Art Deco masterpiece designed by Joseph Urban, the illustrious Ziegfeld set designer. The walls are made of black Carrara glass, and although smoke and soot has darkened much of the "Tree of Life" murals, they are still breathtaking.

I knew when the front desk swiped my credit card that many people and places and things so connected with the Penn were long gone -- Silverblatt's Flower Shop had wilted into the garden of memories, along with the "gardenia girls" who roamed the Terrace Room selling the sweet-smelling "souvenirs."

I knew that Bob Hope really hadn't proposed to his future wife Dolores here; over the years, the urban legend has made such great copy that Dolores herself once told a Penn employee, "I didn't meet him until I arrived in New York, but it's a good story -- go ahead and use it. I won't tell."

And ever since 1922, opening night guest Lillian Russell has been taking an awfully long nap in her private room in Allegheny Cemetery.

Still, memories abound. So does the grandeur ... ornate moldings, the three Maria Theresa Chandeliers in the lobby, the frescoed and mirrored walls, cherry wood-trimmed walls that hold memories of when Jackie Gleason drove up to the hotel in an open convertible surrounded by the June Taylor dancers; when Pittsburghers crowded the lobby to catch a glimpse of a campaigning JFK; when Liberace wanted a birthday cake at 2 in the morning.

More recent stories must go blindly into print -- Penn's PR rep Page tells great gossip, and I promise not to name names. So I can't tell you which World Famous Singer demanded the hotel's rooftop be made into a private tanning salon. I cannot tell you the World Famous (Dead) Singer who demanded a dry heat humidifier for his vocal cords. Not all is anonymous. I can tell you that Springsteen, sipping Starbucks in the lobby, welcomed fans and signed autographs, and that Julianne Moore, unhappy at a rival hotel, called Page to ask if the Penn could put up her and her two daughters. The answer was yes; Page has saved the messages and gladly plays them for anyone willing to listen.

I think of Bruce and Julianne as I spend most of the night rummaging through the Presidential Suite, opening this drawer and that one, peeking into numerous dishes and vases and urns that looked valuable but which may have come from Pier I. I flip through vintage books. I sit at the baby grand piano. I look under the beds, under the mattresses, between the sofa pillows. Nothing. No discarded groupie phone numbers. No illicit drugs. Nothing that would have shined a bit of light into the private lives of the stars. Trust me, I looked, and trust me, the Penn's chambermaids are so good nothing was left, although I did find a half of loaf of bread and some bagels in a kitchen closet.

I left them behind, and now wonder if I made a mistake: I could have gotten away with telling friends they belonged to Mick or Liza or Bruce or Mr. World Famous Singer and perhaps made some dough.